


SEVEN

by MrsRen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bit of a Burn, Co-workers, Curses, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Sex Magic, Tumblr request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsRen/pseuds/MrsRen
Summary: Cursed to die seven years from the fall of the Dark Lord, Hermione takes up the post as part-time Hogwarts library in an attempt to take back at least part of what will be the last year of her life. The events that follow serve to make her feel more alive than she has since the beginning of the curse, and become all the more aware of what she's going to leave behind.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger/Theo Nott
Comments: 49
Kudos: 142
Collections: Evil Author Day - MrsRen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am cleaning out my drive for evil author day. There are multiple things in the collection, and if you'd like to see me work on something, please tell me. I still love all of these ideas, but I'm hoping getting them into the world might give me some inspiration.

Seven.

It started with the number seven. It had followed Harry for years, in the form of his quidditch number, in the form of what society called the most magical number, and eventually, it had clung to her. Burrowed itself into her clothes while they trekked through the Forest of Dean, sunk into her skin as she writhed on the floor of an ancient house that spat on her, and it had nested itself into her bones during on the second of May, nineteen-ninety-seven.

Hermione looked from the street, teeming with crowds as the younger inhabitants of the world prepared for another term. Adults were ran ragged, lines sunken into their faces as their rambunctious children wore them out one last time before the first of September arrived. Her birthday was in September, she thought idly as she traced her initials in the condensation of the window pane.

It might be her last one.

Tucking a hand beneath her chin, Hermione leaned against the glass, feeling the coolness of it spread across her cheek. Grimmauld Place was never warm despite her efforts at warming charms. As the summer had crawled past them, each and every spell had begun to have less of an effect. Pulling her knees closer to her chest, her jumper slipped from her shoulders as she shifted. In the reflection, she saw how her collarbones protruded, and tore her gaze away.

Downstairs, Harry and Ron busied themselves with wizard's chess. She knew because they had invited her, albeit with looks of pity, when she returned home from Flourish and Blotts. Hermione had given a shake of her head, and a whisper of "No" that neither of them heard. Ron had called her name, telling her to slow down as she hurried up the steps.

Seventeen steps, she'd counted several times over the summer. Even still, that number haunted her as if it were floating behind her, looming over her like a cloud that she couldn't escape. By the end of May of that year, she'd lost her breath on the sixteenth step. By the end of June, the fourteenth. By the end of July, it had been thirteenth. August had been the witness of a momentary rush of determination, and it had risen to fifteen.

Her strength was whittled down to seven steps by the twenty-seventh of August.

Fate had it out for her, Hermione was certain of that, and there was only one person to blame. However, he was dead, and clearly Voldemort was laughing the last laugh.

* * *

Living together with Harry and Ron had never been Hermione's idea. She owned a flat, decorated just how she liked it, and with as many books as she liked. She owned a telly. She was free to light candles and soak in the bath without worrying about boys cleaning the grout, or stealing up all of the hot water. There was no one to question her comings and goings. Some nights she had dates. As a young, single witch, she was free to do so. As a rising figure in the Department of Magical Creatures, she didn't need to answer to anyone as to why she came home so late.

That wasn't the case with her two friends.

Hermione tried her best not to feud with them. They were only trying to support her as much as they could, but it was all so stifling. Ron never liked to see her leave Grimmauld without one of them, once spouting, "But what business does a cursed witch have dating anyway?" It had resulted in a well-deserved, light, stinging hex to his non-important bits. "To live her life, Ronald!"

Five words—at least it wasn't seven—summed it up nicely.

She visited Australia after word from St Mungos came, figuring that it would be best to do so before the bulk of her strength left her. Monica and Wendell Wilkins had a daughter. She was a pint sized four year old with an insatiable thirst for mischief. Named Hermione just as her older sister that she would never know, Hermione thought she would be everything the couple hoped for.

She stopped in other countries, ignoring owls that managed to find her, and left no forwarding address for her Floo.

While all of this was true, she was only getting off track. It had started in May with a sudden bout of nausea. She brushed it off for a week, thinking little of it until Harry and Ron both began exhibit similar symptoms. Then the vomiting came, waves of fatigue. On a night she stayed late, no one questioned her. They never did, but as midnight neared, one of those waves of fatigue swept over her.

An intern had found her in the morning: sprawled across the floor, her body shaking with tremors, and foaming at the mouth.

The bright lights hanging overhead in the St Mungos waiting room had greeted her, and the life she'd gotten used to over the years simply vanished.

It was a curse, healers said. The good news was that they knew what it was, what it caused. But with good news, there came bad news. Akin to a muggle parasite, dark magic latched to their magical cores, siphoning magic as it grew stronger. It had been triggered by the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, they speculated. Hermione later learned it had been the seventh anniversary, and laughed darkly to herself.

There was no cure, only delaying the inevitable.

Harry left the Aurors altogether, and it wasn't long before Ron was unable to work in the shop. Surrounded by magic, and unable to use it if they wanted to survive long enough to find a cure—which there were no promises—Hermione envisioned it as a special kind of hell.

Searching for cures made little way for hope when each discovery only limited hope instead of allowing it to flourish. It didn't matter what book she read, what experts she consulted in other countries, there was simply no way to undo what had been done.

That wasn't going to do.

* * *

Tensions had been high since May, consistently rising with every day that passed, but it finally boiled over.

The side effects of the curse are far reaching, and it terrified her more than she would ever admit to either of them. All of that was terrible, Hermione couldn't deny it, but she knew one thing: she couldn't live in Grimmauld Place for one more bloody minute.

When she ventured out for a morning walk before either of the boys had a chance to wake, Hermione returned with an issue of the Daily Prophet tucked under her arm, and a steaming cup of tea from a shop that had just opened. Ron's mouth fell open as she strode into the small kitchen and dropped two croissants in front of them. "Good morning."

Light blue eyes narrowed, and Ron's lips pressed into a thin line. He froze in his chair, and if he stayed just like that, she would be able to count his freckles. "When did you leave?"

"Twenty minutes ago." Hermione shrugged. She nonchalantly sipped her tea. "You can't expect me to stay in the house all day long. I'm already about to lose my mind."

At the reminder, his features softened, but Harry didn't share the sentiment. "How are you feeling? You must be perfectly okay since you're just wandering Diagon like you're not dying." The kettle whistled, and his brows drew together as he stormed from the room.

"He's just worried." Ron hurried. "Harry understands. I know he does. You've just, well, you've just taken the curse worse—"

She nodded. "I'm well aware the effects have been double yours. At least we know who to blame for that, and she's already dead."

He winced at her cavalier tone—Ron always did—and reached for the food she'd brought. "Harry will calm down before noon."

Of course he would. They were all just reacting to the cramped space, to the crisis that had been setting in for months. Hermione already knew exactly what was happening, and that was how she knew she needed to get out.

* * *

Her hopes hadn't been high as she turned to the page for job listings. While her career history was flawless, anyone with half of a thought would ask why she wasn't with the Ministry anymore, and more questions meant admitting that there was something wrong. Denial wasn't healthy, but she'd cling to it for as long as she could.

The paper almost slipped from her hands when she glanced over the headline and dragged her gaze back to it. It was a posting for Hogwarts as a librarian.

She snatched a quill from the desk and drafted a letter to McGonagall before sending it with Hexix, a tawny owl that liked to nip her fingers.

It might be a perfect fit.

* * *

Minerva's reply had come without delay, and she'd invited Hermione for an interview at noon on August 30th. It was last minute, given the fact that the term was going to start in two days.

As she made her way to the Floo, she looked at Ron and Harry. Both of them sat at the table, each of them holding a hand of cards. "I have an interview at Hogwarts." Deciding blunt was the best way to deliver the news, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder. "Madam Pince needs help in the library. It would be a perfect fit for me since I'm not able to perform magic."

A bite of treacle tart fell out of Harry's mouth. "Don't you have to use magic to work in the library? It's Hogwarts, isn't it?"

She rolled her eyes. "The Hogwarts library mainly operates on a complex set of charms. They've been in place since the founders created the school."

Ron chewed his food slowly, and glared at the table.

"I know you're upset. I'm sorry, but if I stay in this house for another day, I'm going to kill one of you before the curse does." Hermione turned, and stepped into the fireplace before calling out for Minerva's Floo.

The dark wood of Grimmauld vanished in the green flames that surrounded her, and she coughed as she stepped out of the fireplace.

The headmistress's office was quite a bit different than Hermione remembered. Professor Dumbledore had thrived on clutter, and now all of the tombs were neatly organized, housed on ancient shelves that were void of dust. Minerva rose from her chair, bony fingers bracing against the armrests. "Hermione, it's lovely to see you. Please have a seat."

Crossing her ankles, Hermione clasped her hands in her lap, and resisted the urge to fidget with the hem of her blouse. Before she could say anything, or return the woman's warm greeting, Minerva spoke.

Leaning back in her chair—but not so much that she came across as a slouch—Minerva looked her over once and then twice. "Forgive me for my bluntness, but you don't look well, Hermione."

"Oh, yes. I'm not doing well these days. I'd hoped you wouldn't notice, but I knew that would be too much to wish for." Her nails cut into the aging leather, and Hermione's foot tapped against the floor in a fit of nerves. It appeared it had been a good idea not to where pumps.

Not that she would have been able to walk in them anyway.

"I'm sick." Continuing, Hermione glanced at the window behind the large chair Minerva occupied. "I'm not going to get better."

Minerva's hand twitched, and several pieces of parchment floated to the floor. "Pardon?"

It wasn't how she'd envisioned the interview going, but given the liklihood of Minerva hiring her, the discussion was inevitable. "I've been cursed." Perhaps it should have worried her how cavelier her attitude was, but several long months of spiraling had left her cynical. "Well, I was apparently cursed during the war, but it hadn't taken its toll until this year."

Her professor leaned forward, laying her forearms against the table. "What sort of curse?"

"The sort of curse that will likely kill me in May. Healers theorise it's due to the locket we wore after we went on the run in our seventh year. They're right." Hermione traced a crack in the armchair. "I'm looking for something to occupy my time, Minerva. I left my career after being told the stress could shorten my lifespan even further."

The hardened stare that had followed them through years of schooling softened. "How are they?"

"Harry and Ron are hopeful there's a cure. They're furious that I'm here, but I can't stay locked up inside for a minute more." Hermione sneered. "From what I understand, the library operates mostly on charms already set in place. I'm not able to preform magic."

With a wave of her hand, Minerva brushed the complication aside. "You won't need to. Of course, you may have to shelve returns by hand, but I doubt that will be an issue for you. I'm happy to make arrangements for you."

Hermione had thought that would be the case. Even though she was grateful for it, it was infuriated to be catered to. "I would appreciate that. There is one more thing. I don't want anyone to learn of my condition."

"Madam Pomfrey will need to be made aware." She shifted in her seat. "I'm correct in my assumption that you must take daily potions, aren't I?"

 _Unfortunately so._ It was an easy concession on Hermione's side.

"Neville Longbottom is a professor here as well. Perhaps you would like to tell him? It would be pleasant to have someone in the castle you can confide in."

Hermione nodded. "Of course. May I start on September 1st?"

"Absolutely. I'll have your rooms prepared for you to move your belongings into."

* * *

Harry wouldn't look at her. The moment she'd landed in their Floo, spluttering as she inhaled the powder, he had left the room. He'd muttered under his breath, and shot her a fierce glare when she told him he ought to say it where everyone could hear. Moments later, his bedroom door had slammed shut.

Ron sipped his drink, nodding in her direction. "Firewhisky?"

"It's one o'clock in the afternoon."

He rolled his eyes. "So bloody what, Hermione? It's not like I'm doing anything else with my shite day or my shite life, am I?"

It tugged at the guilt that had already burrowed itself into her chest, and Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." He muttered. "I was thinking of taking up smoking. What do you think?"

"I think that smoking isn't just something you _take up_. You shouldn't drink so early in the day. Have you eaten?" Hermione opened the cupboards, and found that they were due another shopping trip. "We're out of food."

Ron slurped his drink. "It's Harry's turn to go."

 _Fat chance of that happening._ "New plan then." Hermione brushed her hands on her jeans, scowling at the dust left there. "How do you feel about takeaway? We can go into Diagon Alley, visit the shop if you like, and pick up groceries—Ron?"

His chair screeched against the floor when he stood. "No, I don't think so. Thanks for trying anyway." He left her in the kitchen feeling more guilty than she had when she'd left.

Everything was such a mess.

* * *

Her room would have been simple to pack if she were able to use magic, but as it was, her wand remained in her back pocket utterly useless. She rolled her clothes to make for more space, and crammed into the largest suitcase she owned. Next came her books she didn't want to leave behind, and the things that would undoubtedly break if she tossed them into her beaded bag.

Part of her wanted to throw the damned bag away when she laid eyes on it. Sure, it had seen her through so much as a teenager, but now it only served as a reminded for the worst time of her life that kept giving. If they could have destroyed the locket sooner, then maybe…

Imagining a different outcome did nothing.

Still, she wished Harry and Ron had found the sword of Gryffindor sooner. At least if they had, the ruddy thing wouldn't have been able to haunt her then, or now. Tom Riddle's voice had never fully left her, choosing to creep into her mind when she was most vulnerable.

Maybe he would always have the last laugh.

It whispered to her in the dead of night, waking her from sleep that was never deep enough for her to rest. He taunted her with slippery words, accusing her of being too _weak_.

The last time it had come to her, Hermione had shattered the only mirror in the room by hurling the clock across the room. The glass had splintered in all directions, and both boys had rushed into her room. Discovering her as she stood perfectly still, staring at her fractured reflection—it had stopped both of them in the doorway.

She'd never replaced the mirror.

A soft knock sounded against the door, and it slowly swung open to reveal Ron. "Hey."

Hermione didn't reply. She shoved her blouses into her suitcase, her irritatbility rising with each movement. "If you've come to try and change my mind, you can forget it."

Ron sat on her bed. He clasped his hands together and tilted his head toward her. "I know I can't change your mind."

Nodding, she flipped the lid shut and zipped it closed. "Has Harry accepted that yet?"

"Um, no."

Of course he hadn't. She should have known as much.

"Out of the three of us—between you and me—he's handling this worse than either of us. All he's ever wanted is to protect his family, and friends. He's helpless."

"No, no," Hermione bit out. "You're not going to turn this around on me. I'm not the one who should feel guilty. I'm a grown woman, and believe it or not, I can make my own decisions. Harry can't expect me to stay here when I'm miserable."

It would have been easier to remain angry if Ron hadn't flinched. "It's easier when we're together, isn't it?" Drawing a breath, he picked at his nails. "At least this way we can see each other and know we're all still alive first thing in the morning. He tries not to come downstairs because he's terrified one of us won't be there."

Hermione sat beside him, reaching over to grip his hand in hers. "I'm really sorry, but I've got to get out of this house."

Ron snaked his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her toward him until her head rested on his shoulder. "Yeah, I know. Harry does too. Just…don't give up yet, yeah? We're going to find a cure." His optimism had always be contagious—his laugh infectious—but it did nothing to lift her spirits.

She managed to nod anyway.

* * *

Hermione arrived in Hogsmeade with a grim curve to her mouth. She held her bag, and her arm fell to her side. The castle was just as she remembered as a child, but even from where she stood, Hermione could make out where there were chipped bricks.

From curses flying through the air as screams vibrated the air.

It had been a mistake to arrive in Hogsmeade first. She was gifted with a full view of the village that had previously been leveled—nearly entirely—but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the castle as she neared it. It stretched into the sky, and she could immediately recall the windows in which she'd stood.

Her stomach churned.

She should have asked Minerva if it would be possible to arrive inside the castle, but she chastised herself. Eventually she would have to step outside, and confront the terrible memories that joined the joyful ones.

Pushing away her internal debate, Hermione hurried toward the castle. She found the entrance open, and easily slipped inside. No sooner than she'd taken two steps, there was a faint _pop!_ Faltering mid-stride, Hermione peered down at the house elf that stood in her path. "Hello. Excuse me, if I could just—"

"I'm Esme."

"That's lovely, Esme. If I may—"

Esme brandished a wooden spoon with a wild gleam about her eyes. "Mistress says you will be living here for the year."

Hermione swallowed, still eyeing the spoon, and she didn't attempt to step around her once more. "That's true. I'm working here for the term."

"I'm to be showing you to your room, Mistress."

 _Oh, dear._ Not that Hermione had ever had a plan in place—well she did, but there were so many variables—but it seemed to have derailed already. _Fucking typical_. "Can I convince you to call me Hermione?"

Esme debated it. "Hermione." She said. "I like it. This way, Hermione."

She followed her, surprised by just how much faster Esme moved than her. Esme led her up a staircase, where they waited for another to swing around and click into place.

They came upon a heavy wooden door, and Hermione reached to shoulder her bag.

It was gone.

Esme pushed the door open. "This is where you's be staying." The moment the door fully closed, she pulled out a drawer and offered a vial to Hermione. "Every morning, I'll be bringing you potions. No arguements."

Hermione had the suspicion that she didn't want to find out what happened if she argued. "Will anyone else know? Or any of the other house elves?"

Her eyes flapped when she shook her head. It was endearing, really. "No one be knowing but me."

She didn't like depending on anyone, but Hermione tabled her disdain as she reached for the vial. "Thank you for this. The trip wasn't kind to me." She swallowed the nausea potion in one go.

* * *

The prospect of joining the entire staff in the Great Hall was daunting. Hermione found that she would rather stay in her bed, and she _did_ feel sluggish. However, she'd built this up as an opportunity to live a little, and she couldn't shirk on that promise from the first day. Even if tomorrow was technically the first day.

She dressed in her favorite pair of jeans, knowing her joggers wouldn't be presentable. Hermione tied her hair back, and donned a knitted jumper before confronting the cold chill that rolled through the corridor as she stepped out.

The Great Hall was in the final steps of decorations for the new term.

As she entered, the temptation to turn on her heel and return to her room was stronger than ever. Hermione approached the head table, smiling when Neville waved to her.

There was a familiar head of white blond hair to Neville's right. Of course, she'd known Malfoy was employed as a professor now. It had been front page news in the Daily Prophet, and now that she considered it, the complaints had died down as quickly as they had begun.

Hermione bumped into someone, and it took three seconds for her to raise her head with a sigh. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not a problem." While she didn't recognise the delightfully low voice, she did recall a set of more boyish features when she'd been in school. "Granger." He dipped his head. Theodore Nott had grown into himself, and she couldn't help but notice his broad shoulders as he didn't bother with a set of robes over his clothes. He was marginally more fit than the last time she'd seen him as a teenager.

Plastering a smile onto her face as her stomach worked itself into another set of nerves, Hermione cut a path around him. She sat in the chair Neville pulled out for her, and settled into dinner.


	2. two

Magic thrummed around her. It was in the walls, in the air, even in the stone she stood on. All of it was palpable, as if it was solid enough for her to reach out and touch. Her wand spurred to life, and all of it felt like coming _home_.

Until she wasn't able to lift her wand and cast a warming charm because the castle was so bloody cold. Around her, her peers used magic without thought. That morning, Nott had stirred his coffee with little more than a rotation of his index finger. She knew because she had stared. Neville had elbowed her gently in the ribs so as to pull her attention back to the room.

Wandless magic was impressive, even more so when it was non-verbal.

She'd been able to do it, and there she sat with thinly veiled jealousy as Nott carried on a conversation with Malfoy while stirring his coffee. Just because he could. In that moment, it had been tempting to raise her hand. She could do it. Hermione knew that.

It was just as she'd told Neville though, her magic was doing all it could to keep her alive. To use it at all, it posed a risk that healers said wasn't worth it. They had told her with mixed looks of pity that the smallest of tasks were—

Two girls rushed past the library, each of them laughing loudly while adjusting their robes. They were late to class, Hermione could guess. Tapping her fingers against the counter, Hermione knew she needed to get a grip. Drowning in her self pity wouldn't get her anywhere.

Madam Pince arrived on the dot, and she didn't look impressed that Hermione had arrived early. She slid behind the counter, and adjusted her glasses. "Hermione Granger." She mused. "I thought Minerva was joking when she told me you would be joining me this term."

Hermione followed her through the library for the better part of the morning, learning the series of layered charms that kept the library operating. Pince had no idea of her true affliction, but it set Hermione on edge as she detailed how most things could be fixed by a simple bit of magic.

"There will be nothing to worry about, dear."

A weight dropped down on her chest, robbing her of breath, and Hermione forced herself to smile. She found herself doing that more and more as of late. Would it stop at any point, or was she meant to carry on this farce until she collapsed, and didn't get back up? It was such a macabre outlook, but any motivation she'd previously had to maintain hope was gone.

Pince continued on, her robes billowing as she held her hands out while her wand cut through the air. She shelved nearly a hundred books within an instant.

For one, Hermione had no idea why there were so many books to shelve when the term had only begun three days ago. For another, she sincerely hoped the Hogwarts library wouldn't stop by the library often lest she see Hermione doing everything the muggle way. Preferring to do things the muggle way was a flimsy excuse and it wouldn't hold up under scrutiny.

"It will be nice to leave the library in capable hands." It's hard to envision the library without her. Madam Pince had ruled over the library with an iron fist, and there was a layer of sadness under her words. "I'm ready to retire, however. Poppy is ready to travel, and she's grown quite tired of waiting on me."

"I'm honoured." Hermione shoved her not so sudden guilt aside.

**oOoOoOoOo**

Neville's brows drew together, and he gripped her shoulder. "You really need to breathe."

The only response Hermione had was to wheeze. God, it felt so pathetic.

"Hermione, it's alright." Her glare sharpened, and he smiled weakly. "Okay, it's not alright, but you're free to vent."

She sat atop the work bench, fingers curled around the edge of it, and she reminded herself to breathe. "She feels like it will be left in good hands, but what if she has to return for another year because I've kicked the bucket, and—"

His frown deepened.

"Are you going to tell me I shouldn't say things like that? Because if you are—" Hermione blinked as he held something out to her. "Neville! Is _that_ —"

"A joint. Yes, it is. You need to smoke it immediately."

Recoiling, Hermione shook her head. "I can't."

"If you're worried it will negatively impact your potions, I can assure you it won't." He lit it, and held it out to her, coaxing her. "One of my best friends is a potions master, and he would have told me."

Her fingers twitched. "Do you regularly smoke?"

Neville's head fell back as he laughed fully from his stomach. "With all the bloody teenagers I teach? Don't get me wrong, I love my job and every student, but some of them just really take it out of me."

Perhaps she wouldn't have followed his advice when they were younger. He'd never been so unintelligent that she couldn't trust him, but Neville was certainly sure of himself now. Hermione took it from him.

"Do you know how to take a hit?"

"Yes."

_No._

No, she did fucking not. Hermione inhaled, and he told her that it was fine, but then she choked. Over the sound of that, she could hear him explaining that was normal too, but—

"So, I'm assuming you lied about knowing how to smoke a blunt." Neville grinned. He took it from her and pressed it between his lips. "It'll help if you want it to. No pressure."

She glanced at it, surveying the burning end, and brought it to her lips again.

"You're going to make it, you know. All three of you." Neville told her to inhale during his pep talk.

Hermione choked again, and rolled her eyes. "Keep your hopes to yourself, and tell me how to do this."

His laughter rattled the pots over their heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all i have on this one from my drive. let me know what you think, if you'd like to see it developed, etc.


End file.
